


To Rebuild

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-26
Updated: 2008-01-31
Packaged: 2019-01-19 18:29:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12415584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: What can bring together two sisters who are long separated, battered by war, divided by time and circumstance? Persistence. // A reunion in five steps. // Rewrite of the original, posted in August of 2007.





	1. Not Ever

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

Both women are caught entirely off guard the first time it happens.

It’s been years— _decades—_ since the last time they came face to face. There’s been times when they came close, of course, but, well—before the second war, one avoided the other like the plague, and after it ended, their roles were reversed.

Now, though, it’s been almost a decade since the fall of You-Know-Who, and it only takes one relaxed moment for things to change; just a second laughing as she leaves Eeylops and paying more attention to her grandson than to her surroundings, before she can look up and realize who’s standing right in front of her.

_(not here, not now, not ever)_

This is the closest she’s come to Narcissa in two and a half decades.

Andromeda thought she might have forgotten what she looks like after so long, with no pictures, no visits, no more than a fleeting glimpse of blonde hair and pale skin over the past twenty-five years. Now, though, she sucks in her breath sharply. She never realized how impossible it is to forget a sister’s face. It brings everything back in a rush.

They stand five feet apart, paralyzed. Diagon Alley bustles around them, but their world is absolutely still. Narcissa cradles a small, blonde infant in her arms, and Andromeda tightens her grip on nine-year-old Teddy’s hand. The boy knows not to fidget, but his shock of turquoise hair goes indigo, attracting more attention from the crowds than the frozen looks the pair exchanges.

Hesitantly, Narcissa opens her mouth to speak.

_(not here, not now, not ever)_

Fury rises in Andromeda without warning; the shock of this sudden meeting had silenced her mind and heart, but the reasons for avoiding her sister bubble up to the surface rapidly, before Narcissa can get in a word. Andromeda grinds her teeth together, and at the look in her eyes, Narcissa presses her lips back together, whatever she had planned to say dying on the tip of her tongue.

Warm brown hair swishes against stony features as Andromeda pushes past her younger sister with Teddy in tow; icy platinum strands falls over defeated eyes as Narcissa turns to watch them leave. Andromeda doesn’t look back, which is to be expected—she never has.

Everything’s different now; this brief moment has shattered the façade that avoidance would be possible in such an enclosed society. Wizarding Britain simply isn’t large enough.

Both know they’ll have to deal with this eventually.

_(not here, now not, not ever)_


	2. Long Gone

The bookshop is quiet, and empty; Andromeda doesn’t see a shopkeeper anywhere. The air is heavy, musty, rich; the room is dark with swirls of dust motes in the scattered golden beams of sunlight. It reminds her of countless hours spent in the upstairs library in her childhood home.

_(but childhood is long gone)_

Enraptured as she is by the leather volume in her hands, she turns immediately, tensed, hand discreetly on her wand, when a bell tinkles quietly over the door. Instinct. War is not a faded memory; it remains in the front of her mind, like a boggart you can never overcome.

“I didn’t come here searching.” The voice is soft, elegant, refined, but it still holds the girlish quality she remembers so well. “I only followed when I saw you.”

There is no answer, no clarification. The silence stretches for an age.

At last, Narcissa sighs softly.

“I thought… you were Bella, for just a moment.”

Her use of the second-nature pet name forces images into Andromeda’s head, ones that she's intentionally forgotten, ones that carry a thousand meanings.

It is like being doused in ice water.

“Andy…”

This time, the bookshop swirls away.

\---

_‘Andy!’_

_A smiling child with a shining halo of blonde hair and tiny, perfect teeth runs unsteadily after her sister._

_‘Andromeda,’ corrects Druella Black._

_‘Andy,’ whispers one of two nearly identical figures, dark haired, taller than their sister, when their mother leaves earshot. ‘I’m always Andy, Cissy.’_

\---

_‘We’re going, Andy! To Hogwarts, together!’_

_Black hair brushes against dark brown, pale, slender hands clasp together, and girlish faces lose their regality for a moment of excitement._

\---

_There is laughter, a playful challenge; ‘So do you have a name?’_

_She tosses her hair and holds her chin high. ‘Andromeda.’_

_His eyes sparkle. ‘That’s not a proper name. Something shorter. Do you have a nickname?’_

\---

_‘Come on, Andy, let’s get away from this Mudblood.’_

_He ignores the insult as easily as his own unforgivable breach of propriety._

_‘Andy, hm? So you do have a nickname.’_

\---

_‘Cissy, you don’t understand, I have to go, I can’t stay here.’_

_There is unfamiliar stiffness. ‘Andromeda, you’ve changed.’_

_Her words are an unspoken dismissal; there is a chasm, a blaze, a departure._

_Then a silence that stretches decades._

\---

_‘Oh, Andy–’_

_There is frustration and pain. ‘Don’t call me that.’_

_Confused eyes gain understanding slowly.; There is an agreement, a nod, sympathy._

_‘Alright. How’s ‘Dromeda?’_

\---

“Andy?” Narcissa asks again, watching her sister warily.

Andromeda sharply returns to the present, shaking her head slightly at the rush of memories. Childhood names have the ability that not many other things possess; they break past her walls and dredge up everything she’s buried away and forgotten.

For a moment, she accepts the nostalgia, let it wash over her—

_(but childhood is long gone)_

—then, as she looks across the empty room at Narcissa, she thinks better of it.

Andromeda’s chin juts into the air, and her eyes assume nobility. A scorched tapestry means nothing; the pride instilled by her blood remains, and somewhere deep inside, she is still a Black.

She brushes past Narcissa for the second time in as many years. Narcissa watches her walk away, but this is not a second time; it is a third. She lets her go, wordlessly. Just as the times before.

Once, there was a time when they never walked away from each other; in a time when blood was thicker than water, and sisters were worth more than the world.

_(but childhood is long gone)_


	3. I'll Never

“Do you remember when you left for school?”

Andromeda jumps violently at the sound of her sister’s voice from just behind her. For endless years, she has been alert constantly; living in war means an early end to childhood and a threat around every corner. Her guard is down for just a moment, as she watches her grandson board the gleaming scarlet train, as she gazes at the puffs of smoke. One moment was all it took.

_(i’ll never forget)_

“I was devastated,” Narcissa’s soft voice continues behind her. “I was alone at home with Mother, always imagining you and Bella having grand adventures, with only Regulus to distract me now and then.” 

Andromeda is paralyzed, fighting memory. She doesn’t turn to look; she doesn’t have to. She can see the other woman in her mind; as she is now, yes, but also as she was at nine, with a shine in her eye, flowers in her hair, welcoming them home from school. For a brief second, she wonders why her past won’t leave her alone; then she realizes that her past is still alive, embodied in the woman who stands only a matter of feet away.

“Draco’s son is going to Hogwarts in eight years.” Now Narcissa’s tone is bit more brisk, with less nostalgia tinting her voice. “Scorpius Pollux. A lovely child.” 

_(but i’ll never have—)_ __

_It tips the scale. With a_ fraction of pause and an angry exhale, she breaks. Malice bubbles and pours over, like lava. It’s been held in for too long.

"That’s _wonderful_. Do you have him over for tea, Narcissa? How does he get along with Lucius – with _Grandfather?_ Of course, he adores his _parents. _ He’s got the _perfect _ life, doesn’t he, the _lovely_ child? He’s got the perfect _family._ ”

_(—and i’ll never forgive)_

Andromeda feels the recoil through the air; she doesn’t have to look over her shoulder. There is no remorse for her words; she meant each one.

Without a glance, she turns to leave the platform, walking away from Narcissa for the fourth time. Curiously, no weight is lifted from her chest, as she expected after such a rant. If anything, she feels heavier, as though another stone has been placed somewhere near her heart, and she’s not sure that she can keep carrying this weight.


	4. Familiar, Heartwrenching

Andromeda’s heart leaps into her throat when she opens the door apprehensively and sees the _(familiar, heart-wrenching, forlorn)_ angular face, framed by sheets of blonde hair.

“A Black never leaves a visitor on their doorstep.”

It is a challenge of a dozen layers.

Andromeda steps away, turns on her heel, and walks from the room, giving no response.

But she leaves the door open behind her.

Narcissa follows.

Andromeda sits down at the kitchen table, looking at nothing; her back is straight, not quite rigid, good posture ingrained in her subconscious years before. Narcissa joins her at the table, but she is determined to gaze anywhere but at that _(familiar, heart-wrenching, determined)_ face. Narcissa leans forward slightly in her chair. The silence is suffocating.

“Toujours Pur is gone, Andromeda.”

She banishes Sirius from her mind, telling herself ‘be strong, do not think of it.’

"The Dark Lord – Lucius’ master, Bella’s master – is gone. Has _been_ gone. For over a decade.”

Narcissa allows herself a cautious inhale.

“The walls have crumbled.” A smile enters her voice; it is slight, but it is there. The request will not be spoken aloud. Both of them know what it is. They have known since the day in Diagon Alley, since the day the Second War ended. Since the day Andromeda ran away from home, left the Ancient and Most Noble House.

It doesn’t matter what she tells herself, she cannot help but think of it. After spending so many years trying to avoid it, it’s time to let everything come to the surface.

“Sirius is dead, Narcissa.”

Andromeda’s voice is calm, level, matter-of-fact. She wears a mad smile, and for a moment, she _is_ Bellatrix. They finally makes eye contact. Narcissa’s blonde hair shifts with her violent wince, the reaction momentarily clear on her _(familiar, heart-wrenching, vulnerable)_ face.

She continues viciously.

“Dead. Do you remember Sirius, Cissa? Before he was just _the Gryffindor?_ Do you remember the first time Bellatrix taught him a hex? Do you remember how much he loved Christmas at our house, hated it at his own? Do you remember his damn motorbike?”

Her volume gradually increases. Narcissa’s grey eyes are wide, staring into chocolate brown, a brown whose warmth has been traded for fire.

“Do you know who else is dead, Narcissa? _Regulus._ ”

There is a flinch, and then a valiant stiffening of posture. Discomfort is evident on her _(familiar, heartwrenching, infuriating)_ face.

“Do you remember Regulus, Cissa? Before he was destroyed by the choices he couldn’t make? Do you remember when Walburga gave him his first broomstick? Do you remember his shock when he made House team? Do you remember how much he adored Sirius?”

Andromeda stands, palms flat on the table; no smile remains, only hard blazing coals in her eyes.

“Do you know who else is dead, Cissa? Bellatrix.” Passion enters her voice. “ _Do you remember Bella, Narcissa?_ Before she loved nothing but shadow, before the tattoo became her soul? Do you remember our older sister? Do you remember her excitement when she got her wand? Sleeping in the same bed night after night, year after year? The rides to home, to school, on the Hogwarts Express? Watching her dress for her first ball? The sparkle in her eyes when Rodolphus courted her?”

She’s shouting now; her words are furious, dangerous, and they’re striking the mark—the struggle to control emotion is visible in the _(familiar, heart-wrenching, mask-like)_ face.

“Do you know who else is dead, Narcissa? Dora. _Nymphadora._ My baby, my child. The _‘dirty halfblood,’_ the _‘little monster.’_ My pride, my joy. My clumsy girl, my messy slob. My Auror. We fought, we screamed, we _loved each other_.”

There is a pause, filled with Andromeda’s ragged breathing.

“Her husband is gone, too.” She is quieter for a moment; the anger slips away, but something below the surface simmers. “Remus Lupin. Do you remember him? Sirius’ friend? Always calm, always with the one-liner, always with a book. So much more than what he showed to the world. Remember when we said that? It was so true. He loved my darling. They had a _baby_ – but he isn’t dead, Narcissa, oh, no. You know that, everyone knows that, everyone knows about Teddy, the son of war heroes, the boy without parents, named for…”

She stops abruptly. Tears well up in her eyes; the fire is not quenched.

“Do you know who else is dead, Narcissa?” It’s a deadly whisper, and Andromeda’s voice threatens to crack. “Ted. _Ted._ My Ted. Do you remember Ted, Narcissa? Do you remember how the family hated him? How they looked down upon him, because he was dirty, common, less? Do you remember Bella’s sneer, her anger when he spoke to me?”

The first pearly drop makes its way down; the very first, since war’s end, since long before. Blacks do not show emotion, ever.

But let thousands of pureblood habits remain; it does not make a difference. A Black would not have spoken her thoughts as she has. Andromeda has not been _only_ a Black for a long time.

She is a Tonks.

“You never knew, Narcissa, none of you did. You never knew the wonderful music he introduced me to, or his amazing talent at Transfiguration, or the quirk of his lips, the slight twist of his face, as he told a joke. You never knew anything about him. You never knew how much he cared about me, how happy we were. You never knew how much _more_ that meant than having _pure blood._ ”

Her bare foot smacks the wooden floor in fury.

“Everyone’s gone, Narcissa!” she yells, dignity forgotten, emotion at the forefront in a rare upheaval. “I’ve lost my husband, my daughter; my life’s been torn away from me! Sirius, Regulus, Bella; life, war, darkness, they were all overtaken. But what about you, _Cissa?_ How have you paid for your sins, how has your life thanked you for your actions? How have you been torn by the war? Have you lost Lucius? Did you watch Draco leave for a battle he wouldn’t return from? Will you hear your grandson ask why he hasn’t a Mum or Daddy? Do you feel atoned? Or do you feel _lucky?_ ”

A palpable silence hangs over the room.

No less weight pulls on Andromeda’s chest than before she began, or before she woke up that morning, or before she saw Narcissa the year before. There is no relief. There is only exhaustion. There is only an opening of floodgates.

Tears stream down her refined face, now blotched red with anger, and are mirrored on that of her _(familiar, heart-wrenching, unbearable)_ sister.

And this time, it is Narcissa who leaves her sister behind wordlessly.

It seems to be a common _(familiar, heart-wrenching, cruel)_ action for the Black family.

 


	5. In Essence

Both of them know she’s finished hiding.

The arrival is expected. Slight tension lingers in the atmosphere of the pub as patrons turn to stare unabashedly at the unusual visitors. It is not a haunt frequented often by the refined. These are not examples of the bar’s standard customers.

_(but in essence, they’re the same)_

Narcissa orders a brandy. Andromeda is half finished with one of her own.

Both of them look straight forward for an age, lost in thought, lost in a different time and place. Both of them drum pale, slender fingers on the bartop.

Narcissa wears a slim gold wedding ring. Andromeda’s silver band has hung from a chain on her neck for seven years. One is a confident symbol of assurance; the other, a momento of a cherished, bittersweet past.

_(but in essence, it’s the same)_

It’s a battle of will, a game of chess—your turn, your move. Which will stay silent the longest? Which will speak first?

“Scorpius is going to Hogwarts tomorrow.”

For the first time since their childhood, Andromeda speaks first; breaking the tension, making the first step, sharing thoughts, starting the chain reaction. It has always been Narcissa in the past. Both are surprised.

_(but in essence, it’s the same)_

It’s a strategy move, and Andromeda always was the chess player, looking five steps ahead to decide which path to take. Irony showed itself in her most impulsive decisions, but this is different; this is calculated.

_(but in essence, it’s the same)_

Narcissa looks at her sister from the corner of her eyes and nods slightly. Silence falls between the pair again.

It is her move.

“You’re angry at me because you think I deserve to have nothing.” It is not a question; not is it a statement infuriating in its blatancy. It is capturing in words the emotion neither could quite identify before, as close as they came.

There are long pauses between sentences; Narcissa plans carefully. She could always give Andromeda a challenge in the game, so unlike Bellatrix, who moved the pieces on a whim.

“I lost everything too, Andromeda.”

There is a sharp look to the side, and her mouth opens to protest, but Narcissa cuts her off.

“No, I did. War took everything from me as well. My losses came long ago, Andromeda.”

She is listening.

“Our childhood was perfection. We had all we needed: each other. Sirius, Regulus, Bellatrix, you, and I. That, Andromeda; _that_ was my everything. War took that away from me – when Bellatrix was intoxicated, when Sirius was on the other side, when Regulus couldn’t make up his mind, and when you did. That was when I lost it all.”

It is a valiant maintenance of composure on both sides.

“You have to rebuild, Andromeda. There is no point in hating the world for _having_ and _living_ when you _don’t_. They will just go on, and you will only wallow, and it will do you no good. I rebuilt. I found Lucius, and he was good to me. I have my Draco, my wonderful son. Never did they fill the hole, never did they replace what I’ve lost. But they are my everything now.

_(and in essence, it truly is different)_

There is direct eye contact, more direct than they’ve had in over thirty years, perhaps more direct than they’ve _ever_ had. There is communication there, and understanding.

“It’s all that’s left now. Rebuild, Andy.”

She looks unblinkingly into Narcissa’s eyes.

“I will.”

It is not optimism. It is not a joyous reunion. It is not a promise of reconciliation. It is determination, a mere nod, a concession, a whisper of a chance. It is the next move in their game of chess.

_(but in essence, it’s the same)_


End file.
